Antebellum Innocence
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Spoilers for the current Glee promo on E! channel. NC-17 fic. Emma shows Will that she knows what it means to be provocative.


Emma Pillsbury never thought she'd be the one to make the first move when it came to men. Her natural shyness has always held her off, but this starry night in the springtime, when she can smell the forsythia on the air and feel Will's warm arm around her waist, she realizes that she can do anything – anything she wants to, and she has the power to make someone else feel the way that Will makes her feel right now.

They're walking alongside the football field, in the dewy grass, and for once, Emma isn't worrying that her red T-straps are getting wet, or that it's a little chilly out, because Will's got her hand, and he's telling her a funny story about Spanish class, and it's only natural then, that when they stop in the centre of the football field, facing each other in the weak moonlight, that she picks up the courage to lean forward and kiss him.

Emma's kisses are not like Will's kisses. Will takes control of the situation; he cups her cheeks, moves his hand to support her back, and kisses her deeply, so that she'll feel it. And literally Emma does go weak in the knees – she almost can't stand up, because she still can't believe that this man she has loved for so long is here and is hers.

Emma's kisses are softer, more tentative. She will start by touching her cheek to his, puckered lips like a peck, and then end up gathering her courage and kissing Will properly, even sneaking her tongue through. And tonight, she traces the contours and curlicues of his ears, feeling the roughness of his stubble on her cheeks, feeling his hands tangle softly in her perfectly curled red hair, and when he lets her come up for air, she is surprised to find herself still standing.

Had the moon been stronger, you may have been able to see the blush on her cheeks.

She know Will loves it when her cheeks colour, showing her feelings on the outside – not that she could ever hide them from him.

They end up driving home when she gets cold; when her fingers can't hold onto his anymore, he makes the decision to drive them back to his place. She spreads her gloved hands in front of the radiator; watches his profile in the peripherals of her vision, the expressions flit across his face in response to her words, or to a certain melody on the CD player. And at this point, she feels like they could drive forever, winding their way across the interstates and just living in the moment, where there's no Terri, no Ken; no school to think of and nothing to worry about. She could ditch the gloves; he could ditch the cardigans – they could be new people, not worrying about their old hang-ups or insecurities.

On nights like these, when Emma's courage is at an all-time high, her dreams run wild; like flowers dotting a meadow, she is able to see each one for the beauty and colour it possesses.

The car pants quietly in front of the apartment building; Will doesn't have a parking space in the underground, but she does appreciate the overhang of the building as the moon is blocked out by the soft veil of night rain. Will covers her with his arms, anyway, as they hurry inside, her hair protected from the moisture, her eyes sparkling at him as he kisses her forehead before unlocking the outside door.

Emma has stayed over exactly once at Will's apartment, shortly after an accident out on the parking lot led Will to take her home, kiss her cuts and bruises better, and cuddle her to sleep in her bed. The next night, she couldn't bear being alone, so she went to his place, watching in incomprehension the hockey on the television and awkwardly sitting just outside the circle of his arms. She had brought a nightgown, but had been too scared, embarrassed to wear it – she'd fallen asleep, in soft, cozy matching sweats, on his couch, in his arms, soothed by his rhythmic breathing and the flutter of his eyelashes.

She'd left the bag at his place; almost as a reminder that she wasn't going anywhere. It's as close as Emma gets to staking her claim. It's as close as she gets to letting Will know that while she may be a nervous wreck that cries easily most of the time, she has an inner core of steel.

He has said nothing, so far. Most days have gone by normally; he may have taken her hand in the cafeteria; she may have allowed him to gently wipe a smudge of peanut butter from the corners of her mouth, but they know how to be professional. She's been looking forward to this Friday all week and her legs are shivering with excitement at what may be to come.

It's unspoken between them, but Emma is a virgin. She's just never been able to relax enough to have sex; not because she's some sort of stuck-up prude, but because sex is messy, and it hurts, and Emma can't stand mess or pain. She doesn't know what will happen tonight – but she does know that if it has to be anyone to take it, she wants it to be Will.

Will takes her coat; smiles. "How are you holding up, sweetie?"

He's started these terms of endearment and she loves them; she's one to nickname and use affectionate terms for people – it's part of her upbringing, and also because Emma feels genuine affection for so many in her life, Will most of all.

She smiles, blushing pink, lowering her eyelashes and looking at him through them, one of his favourite expressions of hers. "I'm okay. Cold; a little tired."

"It's late," he says, and rubs her back, right between her shoulders where knots tend to tie themselves after a long day of angst. "Why don't you go sit down? I'll make some tea."

Emma knows at this point it can go two ways; she can sit down, drink tea, and get driven home at the end of the night, or she can choose to take a stand. Setting her jaw and looking him straight in the eye, not even certain she's ready for this, but knowing that she doesn't want to hang back any longer, she replies, "I'd rather slip into something more comfortable, if that's okay."

Her voice wavers a little at the end and she drops her eyes quickly, so as not to see his reaction, which admittedly, is a little amused. She knows he's thinking of the bag in the corner of the bathroom, and he smiles.

"Sure, Em."

In the bathroom, she takes out her makeup case and quickly slicks on a new coat of mascara and lipstick, fluffing out her soft curls and smoothing down her nightgown. Emma has never dressed provocatively for anyone; this is the first time any man will have seen the shape of her body through the sheer nightie, watched the froth of lace break on her clavicle, edge the soft upper muscle of her arm.

The gentle purple is like a cloud around her body; it hangs modestly, covering her shoulders and most of her upper arm. The lacy collar exposes her collarbone and the nape of her neck; the long folds stop just above her knee. She smoothes the gauzy fabric over her stomach and moves experimentally, watching the gown cling to her slight curves, showing off the contours of her body.

A frisson of excitement shoots down her spine as she readies herself for his reaction. Her bare feet make almost no sound on the hardwood floor as she slips out of the bathroom, her clothes neatly folded in her arms, and places them on the bed in the bedroom, just out of his vision.

He's stirring the chai when she slips in behind him, her long legs goose-pimpled from nervousness and cold, her toes freezing on the ceramic tile. She clears her throat, and he turns around, his face turning from tired to, well, amused, and then soft.

"That does look more comfortable," he says softly, putting down the spoon. She blushes fiercely, feeling her confidence drain out her pretty pink toes and through the floor.

"Do you . . . do you, uh, like it?" Her stammer is back full-force; she refuses to look him in the eye. In fact, she fails to see his reaction at all until his cool fingertip raises her chin, forcing her to look at him, his honest hazel-grey eyes, this time with no amusement.

"I think you're beautiful in anything you wear, Emma."

He catches a tear on his thumb and his face becomes empathetic. "Hey."

"It's not funny, is it? I don't want it to be funny with us."

In response, he kisses her, his lips coming down on hers firmly, forcing her to pay attention, to understand the depth of his affection for her, of his need to protect her and make sure she stays happy. And she kisses him back, letting him know her total trust in him – that she knows that he'll save her, every time, from whatever may be bothering her today or any day.

When they break apart, she melts in his arms, the spicy sweet smell of the chai wreathing the air around them, and he picks her up, his arms cradling her slight body, bringing her to the bedroom.

She isn't sure about this suddenly, and freezes as he lays her on the bed, running a hand over her arm, down to trace her fingers. He fast realizes his mistake; he moves away, letting her do this her way.

She stands in front of him at the end of the bed, watching as he takes off his button-down to expose his black t-shirt and his pants that expose his boxers. She can already see that he, apparently, has no qualms about taking their relationship to the next level. She blushes to think about that, to think about an organ that you can't really control, that moves with your desire, and he ducks his head to catch her gaze.

"What are you thinking about?"

She grabs her towel off the back of the door, leans over him, letting her nightgown fall against his hands, and smiles. "You."

This is so unlike her, his mouth actually drops open at first. She takes his hands (trying to ignore the fact that hers are shaking), places them on her hips; he moves them to her back, pulling her gently towards him, his mouth finding hers, she falling against his lap.

His hand snakes its way under the nightgown, but she freezes when he finds the waistband of her panties, and he stops.

"Are you okay with this, sweetheart? We don't have to."

Her lower lip trembles a little. "I want to," she says, but her voice is unsure, and instead of pushing her, he simply holds her against his body for a moment, letting her decide. She makes the decision to continue by finding his warm hand, covering it with her own, and pulling it around to her stomach, letting him feel the rise and fall of her breathing.

His breathing becomes faster; his hands find her breasts. He's gentle, he moves slowly; her nipples tease out, poking through the nightgown. Because he knows her issues with saliva, he bites one of them, gently, through the fabric. Her sharp intake of breath encourages him to lift the nightgown a little more, exposing her panties and the flattened edge of her stomach. She feels herself falling, down towards the mattress, but his hand cups her head so that when she does hit the blankets, she isn't jolted.

He doesn't expose her breasts; he does begin to run his fingers around the rim of her panties, moving them inch by inch down her thighs, exposing her to the light, and she stops him before he can get them completely off, her cheeks fiery red.

"Turn off the light," she whispers.

He complies.

Now it's just the light from the hallway that outlines their figures as he runs the panties down over her legs, dropping them onto the carpet. His boxers come off; he spreads the towel beside them, she rolls onto it, her mouth connecting with his, feeling his desire for her almost overwhelm her. He's careful to put the condom on himself; she isn't ready to take that step, and she closes her eyes as he guides her hand down, letting her feel that they're safe; they're protected.

Before he enters her, he breathes into her ear, one last time: "Are you sure?"

And of course, at this point, even if she wasn't, it's past the point of no return, anyway. "Just be careful," she whispers back.

It hurts at first – she cries out, and he quickly buries his head in the crook of her neck, kissing her, nibbling slightly on her ear, trying to take away the pain. She breathes through it; he's right there, and after a minute, she relaxes, blinks the tears away, and he's able to move inside her.

The entire ordeal lasts maybe fifteen minutes; she isn't experienced and she has no idea what to do. So she lets him take her through it, the ways to move her hips and the positions of her legs; how to make it not hurt as much and how to actually get any pleasure out of it.

When they're finished, and he's spent, he spends another moment teasing her gently, causing feelings and warmth to awaken where she never thought they would. Her eyes pop open in surprise; they darken and soften as he's able to make sure she relaxes more than she ever has before.

She doesn't move, afterwards; he covers her with a blanket, takes the towel and throws it in the laundry. And just as he's about to show her more of this world she's never let herself have, they hear a click from the front of the apartment and the door's squeaky hinges that Will has never gotten around to oiling make their traditional squawk.

Keys sound; Emma stops breathing, and Terri appears in the doorway.

"What the hell is going on here?"

And all of Emma's antebellum innocence drains away.


End file.
